Cramming the ruined device into the pocket of my jeans so I won’t be tempted to bounce it off another wall, I storm out of my office. I can’t function without a cell phone, so step one of digging myself out of this hole is replacing it.
Then I can pull my own damn reports.
After shoving both feet into a pair of boots, I grab my keys off the kitchen counter. I’m turning for the garage when a movement on the front porch catches my attention.
Squinting through the frosted glass of the door, I slowly step down the entry hall, trying to identify who in the hell is running back-and-forth across the covered outdoor space. The size and general shape is familiar, but doesn’t compute. Because why in the hell would my mother?—
I open the door to a second nightmare.
One I’m even less equipped to deal with.
“What in the hell is happening out he—” I don’t even get to finish my question because my mother’s dog darts between my legs, leaving a wet streak of what I hope to God is mud along the inseam of my pants.
“Don’t let him in your house. He’s got a—” A crash coming from my kitchen cuts off whatever my mother was about to say.
I spin as Gunnar races back at me, mouth full of angry squirrel.
“Holy shit.” I manage to step out of the way just in time as he comes barreling past me, taking the irate rodent along with him.
I watch as Gunnar runs in the direction of Walker’s place, like he can’t wait to show everybody what he’s managed to catch.
Again. At this point I’m starting to think the squirrel is as guilty of a participant as my mother’s lab.
“Why is he running through the rain with that damn squirrel in his mouth?” Sometimes I feel bad for the shit I put—and probably continue putting—my mother through. Then Gunnar does something stupid and I decide I’m not as awful as a room full of former assistants would want me to think.
“Because he could tell it was the lastfuckingthing I wanted to deal with today.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother say the F-word in my thirty three years of life, and my brain doesn’t seem to know how to process it. My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out.
It gets even worse once I get a good look at her. Between the dog, the squirrel, and her dropping an F-bomb, I hadn’t really focused on the aesthetics of her situation.
“What in the hell is all over you?” Like Gunnar, my mother is dripping wet and covered in muck. Her face. Her hands. Her boots. Even her hair is filthy.
And Deirdre Bradshaw is never filthy.
“Mud.” She lifts one arm to sniff at her coat. “And probably some horse shit.”
I’m too horrified to laugh. Too terrified to question her any further. I’ve seen many sides of my mother over the years. The mogul. The homemaker. The celebrity. They might have slightdifferences, but they’re all perfectly poised and perfectly put together. So this…
Is real fucking new.
“Do you want to come in and shower off?” I scan the area outside my house, brows pinching tight together at what I don’t see. “How did you even get here?”
My whole family lives on the same property, but three hundred acres is a lot of area to cover on foot. And while she and I don’t live at opposite ends of the property, the distance is still way more than I would want to take on. Especially on a day like today.
“I got most of the way here in my side-by-side.” She waves one hand in the general direction of my brother Tucker’s house. “But it got stuck in the mud halfway between your place and Tuck’s.”
“Why didn’t you call someone to come get you?” It’s out of my mouth before I think better of it.
She very well might have tried to call me, but my hotheaded ass couldn’t answer because I lost my fucking temper.
Again.
“I don’t know, Trevor.” The way she snaps the words at me makes it pretty clear I’m not going to like whatever’s coming next. “Maybe because if I can’t count on you or your brothers to show up at Thanksgiving dinner, why would I think I could count on any of you to help me out?”
Oh.
Shit.
